Anna (69 page)

“Reckon I'd better come along too,” he said. “Take a bit of time to explain.”

It was May. The sky over the convent was so blue and the sun so fierce that the grey walls had taken on some of its colour and seemed to shine back at it. On either side of the long walk that led down to the big gates, the cypresses stretched like a double row of dark green spears and on the shimmering hills beyond, the tender bloom of the olive was glowing. Sister Veronica thought that she had never seen it all look more beautiful.

Not that she was sad at leaving: she had taught herself that it was wrong to become too much attached to any place. It interfered with any spiritual life that one might be trying to live. Besides, her present duty seemed more important to her than any of her recent ones inside the convent. Her mind, she admitted, had not really been on her work of late.

Even so, she did not particularly look forward to the journey. A child of seven is a somewhat exacting companion, and she had been hoping for a little quietness and freedom. She had even played with the idea of buying a newspaper to read in the train. It would be the first newspaper she had seen for nearly three years.

As it was, she was tired already. She had risen early and made a special devotion before the statue of Our Lady. She had gone round to the other nuns to say good-bye. And finally she had been closeted for upwards of an hour with the Reverend Mother. That good lady had given her much advice, a little encouragement, and
a warning against becoming too much concerned in the affairs of others.

“We must not seek to judge our poor Sister,” she had said, “as we do not know the facts. But at least we can be sure that she has been no good advertisement for our convent.”

Then the Reverend Mother had sent for Annette and given her a small sacred medal by which to remember those who had cared for her. She had kissed the child chastely on her forehead and told her that the nuns and her little companions would pray for her. She asked Annette to remember to do as much for them.

Everything was ready now. Sister Veronica had her charge by the hand. She was grimly determined not to leave go of it, except when the child was sleeping, until she had deposited her in her mother's keeping. In front of them the market cart was standing, their luggage piled neatly on the floor.

Sister Veronica climbed in, her long skirts impeding her. She helped Annette up on to the seat. The seat was high and the child's legs dangled.

“Why are you taking me away from here?” she asked. “Shall I like it where I'm going?”

The packet boat was due to arrive at midday. Newhaven was ready for it, and the usual crowd of idlers and sightseers was standing about waiting for it to come in.

There were two people in particular, a man and a woman, who hadn't taken their eyes off it since the first smudge of smoke had appeared above the horizon. They had arrived early, very early, and the man had put his arm around her shoulders as they stood there.

“Can't be more than a few minutes now,” he said. “They're getting out the gangways.”

She turned and smiled back at him.

“You've been so patient with me,” she said.

“Told you we'd get her here all right,” Captain Webb answered.

The ship was standing by, its paddles idle. Anna felt that she could almost jump across to it. She was straining her eyes anxiously, desperately, trying to make out the two faces that she longed to see. And suddenly they were there—the woman in grey with the white headdress that the wind was blowing, and the little girl. But the little girl was too small to be seen properly. The rail that ran round the deck obscured her.

The gangway had now been slid into place and the passengers were beginning to come off. Anna was waiting at the barrier, her heart pounding. For a space she lost sight of the grey nun and the little girl. They were hidden somewhere behind the huddle of-other figures. Then the child, in the manner of children, pushed herself somehow to the front. Anna saw her test the gangway with her small foot and begin the steep descent. It was Annette who was leading Sister Veronica.

A moment later Anna was holding Annette in her arms. She was kissing her and crying over her; hugging her; holding her at arm's length and then re-embracing her. And it seemed to Anna in that instant as she gazed into the child's large serious eyes again that the pattern of her life was at last complete. Anything else that happened anything else that might occur to her, would be within the full round circle of it.

Anna and Captain Webb had been married for nearly six months now. They had been happy months. Autumn had come round again, and the fire in the prim grate of the Cheltenham drawingroom had been kindled. It was their fire. But it was Annette, too, who sat beside it. There was a small chair in the centre that was reserved for her.

Indeed, if it had not been for Annette they would never have moved to Cheltenham at all. It had been Captain Webb's idea.

“Seems a good school,” he had said. “Sounds as though they
like
children.”

And when Anna had thanked him, had said that it meant that she would be able to see Annette quite often now, Captain Webb had explained himself—even after marriage he was really no better at explaining himself than he had been before.

“Have her to live with us. Day scholar, I mean,” he had said. “Like the idea of your daughter about the place.”

So she was installed. And every morning at nine-fifteen Anna and Annette set off down the quiet terrace of still sleeping houses as far as the high gates of the convent of Our Lady. At four o'clock Anna called for her again. She was so proud of her that she hoped that other people would notice Annette as they went along together. In the straight blue coat and stiff straw hat of the convent she looked more like a little French doll than ever. Her eyes seemed much larger somehow than English children's.

Anna was letting her hair grow, and she now wore a six-inch flaxen pigtail behind. She was a lively child and gave little hops as she walked—but that was because of the dancing lessons that she was taking.

And every day she was becoming more and more English. Her accent was now like the others'. They no longer made fun of her when she spoke. And she seemed to have forgotten the previous life entirely. She never spoke of it. One day, to see if she remembered, Anna asked her if she missed the friends she had been brought up with. Annette nodded. Yes, she missed them, she said. She would like to see them again. There were some of them that she would like to have to stay with her. Two of the Sisters she missed very much indeed. But it was obviously a small personal sorrow of her
own, and she was able to contain it. If Anna had not asked her she would never have troubled to refer to it.

And the world before she had gone to the convent, M. Moritz's world, was apparently entirely shut off from her. She could recall nothing at all of that ivory nursery set against the sea. It might never have existed. The only link with that life was the gilt and enamel rosary above her bed. It was the same rosary that Father Ignatius had given to Anna on that first evening when she had gone to him. Annette was delighted to have it: she had only had a black rosary before.

“And were you good at school to-day?” Anna asked as they walked along together.

“Very good,” Annette told her.

“Did you have singing?”

“There was one little girl sang so high we all laughed.”

“Were you that little girl?”

Annette shook her head.

“I'm their best singer,” she answered.

They walked on a little way in silence.

“We mustn't forget Papa's tobacco,” Anna said. “He'll be expecting it.”

He was smoking as much as ever, the Captain. The old briar, his favourite one, was always between his teeth. He smoked an ounce of tobacco every day, and it was only once a week that Anna bought it for him. She had started doing so for no especial reason. It was simply that she had wanted to give him a present. And he had been so pleased that she had gone on doing so ever since. The only time she had forgotten it, Captain Webb had been left with an empty pipe. He now kept an ounce or two tucked away in reserve without saying anything about it.

They had reached the house by now and Anna pushed open the gate. The house itself was of cream stucco. There was a verandah and a balcony. And the front door had a shell fanlight. So had every other house in the terrace. Their house was different only in Anna's eyes and Captain Webb's—and possibly in Annette's. But to them it was unique. At first Captain Webb had wondered if they could afford it. It was £65 a year. And Captain Webb had only £350 all told. There was £200 a year of his own, and £150 from his pension. But it was enough. They didn't have to go without. There was still jam for tea.

Inside, the house was bright and flowery. Anna had chosen the wallpapers herself. They were gay. Captain Webb would have preferred something not quite so fancy. But he had said nothing.
The thought of his own wife's choosing his wallpapers for his house had made it impossible to restrain her. And, now that the papers were up, he rather liked the effect. It made him feel at once oddly young and strangely old and out of place to be in such surroundings: it was a constant spur to him.

“And what is the first thing you do, Annette, when you've got your coat off?” Anna asked.

“Get Papa's slippers,” Annette answered.

Anna nodded.

“That's right,” she said. “Papa loves having his slippers brought for him. He lived by himself for so long before Mama married him that we've got to spoil him all we can now.”

“We both spoil him, don't we?” Annette said.

“And we spoil you too,” Anna answered.

“Don't you get any spoiling?”

Anna laughed.

“I've never been spoiled so much in my life,” she said.

Captain Webb was sitting there by the fire as they went in, and he jumped up as he heard them.

“My slippers,” he said. “Now isn't that nice? Don't know how I managed before you came to live with me.”

He kissed her and then reached out and took Anna by the hand. There was a tall mirror in the opposite wall and, as they looked into it, they smiled at each other in the glass. The Captain glanced at himself for a moment. He took more trouble with his ties nowadays and wore his moustache clipped shorter: he was quite pleased with what he saw. Then he looked at Anna again.

But Anna too was looking at herself now: and what she saw amused her. “I'm thirty-two,” she was thinking. “And I've grown like any other Cheltenham matron. I wear a coat and skirt made by an English tailor. I take my little girl to school every day. I live in a house in a terrace. And I love my husband. It is as though all my happiness had been crowded into now. I am so happy that I sometimes think that it cannot be me at all.”

But the Captain's arm was round her waist: it was a firm steady arm, reminding her.

“Toast,” he was saying. “Been keeping hot for you. No good if it's tough.”

The house in the terrace seemed suddenly to have become very quiet now that the last of the guests had gone. In the dining-room,
the maid and the two hired waitresses were still clearing up the litter of crockery—the ruby-coloured custard glasses, the dishes that had held the
pâtes,
the little plates for the strawberries and cream. The windows of the room were wide-open and the scent of lilac was coming through from outside, but the room itself still had a close, exhausted atmosphere. There was the faintly melancholy air that hangs over the scene of any party recently dispersed. One of the ladies had left her handbag.

Upstairs in front of the fireplace Captain Webb was standing, his hands under his coat-tails and his eyes dreamily following the spiral of smoke that lazily ascended from his pipe. Opposite to him, Anna was seated. She had a piece of embroidery in her hand and she was holding a threaded needle. But there were long pauses in between the stitches and she kept staring down at the rug as though there were something in the pattern that fascinated her. Captain Webb was watching her closely. He thought that once or twice he had seen her brush away a tear.

“Good do?” he asked. “Everything go off as you wanted it?”

Anna nodded.

“It was lovely,” she said. “Annette was so happy. You could see that she was.”

There was a pause and Captain Webb eased his shoulders where the dress-coat caught him. The suit had hung in the wardrobe for years and his figure had changed somewhat since the dim, forgotten date of that first fitting.

“Nice young fellow,” he said. “Reckon they made a goodlooking pair. Ought to suit each other very well.”

He had made that remark in one form or another rather frequently during the past few weeks: it was the sort of remark that helped to fill in awkward silences.

“I wish he wasn't taking her abroad,” Anna said slowly. “Ceylon seems a terribly long way off.”

She was staring down at the rug again and it was obvious that she really was crying now. A streak of white was visible in her hair as she bent forward.

Captain Webb left his position in front of the fireplace and went over to her. There was room beside her on the couch and he sat down, one arm around her shoulders.

“What's started you off again!” he asked gently. “Thought you'd got used to the idea.”

Anna did not reply immediately. She was smoothing out the handkerchief that she had been holding.

“She was always such a pretty little girl,” she said at last.

Captain Webb laughed.

“Can't expect her to remain a little girl for ever,” he reminded her. “She'll soon be twenty, remember.”

“Soon be twenty!” Anna screwed up her face and tried to smile. “That means we've been married for twelve years,” she said.